


I Love You Without Knowing How, When or From Where...

by UnapologeticallySquirrely



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brotp, Family Reunions, Father-Son Relationship, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Irondad, No Spoilers, Rhodey's P.O.V. for a snippet, other Avengers in passing, the fluff that follows outweighs the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-22 20:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnapologeticallySquirrely/pseuds/UnapologeticallySquirrely
Summary: Post-Infinity War Fic... soon to include a second parter which includes the much-hoped-for Reunion Scene.Tony and Nebula finally escape Titan and set course for Earth. All Tony knows is that he can't seem to breathe properly, and Nebula reluctantly guides him until he recognizes that this is grief unlike anything he's ever felt. Thankfully, these two warriors inspire hope in one another and soon make promises to themselves as well as to their lost loved ones.Flash forward to the next chapter, and we have the happiest of endings where everyone survives and is brought back for their respective emotional reunions. None other is as touching or startlingly sentimental, however, as the reunion between Tony Stark and, yes, his kid, Peter Parker.





	1. How to piece this back together

**Author's Note:**

> *Title is taken from inspiring prompt on Tumblr mentioning Neruda's Sonnet XVII in reference to this heart-warming father/son relationship. I may post the link later if the prompt is found :) 
> 
> I started this fic in October, got side-tracked, and as any good procrastinator would do, I decided to finish it a week before the release of the movie. Go, me!

Tony remembers trying to be as quiet as possible, somehow competing with the deafening gravity of everything that had just occurred. His breaths are shallow, quick, but so very loud. It is all he can heed, all he can focus on to survive this moment.

He closes his eyes, soon closing them so forcibly that tendrils of pain spread across his temples. What is one more ache in the long array he has already, anyway?

_‘Ache. Is that what this is?’_

He clutches his hand closer to his face, curves further into a protective stance. And while his mind asks what there’s left to protect, his body refuses to uncurl.

“We should leave,” a voice states, slightly less resigned than it had been before.

She sounds far away to Tony, impossibly irrelevant – unimportant.

“Mantis mentioned your home world. Same as Quill’s.” Her words gain volume and, with it, resolve. “We head there first.”

_‘And then what?’_

“Terran?”

But Tony barely has a second between the crest of one wave and the other before he’s pulled under. This time no distant sense of automation has a chance at steadying him. He’s foolishly moved, broken the spell, but worse than this, the movement leads him to uncover a trace of something so sentimental, it is no wonder he is blindsided.

It takes one half-turn of his head into his own shoulder, born of self-comfort, to realize his mistake: there, fittingly absurd and glaring once caught, a scent makes quick work of his senses.

Those tacky teenage colognes… It smells like a child playing dress-up.

Tony had even bought a nice bottle of reputable brand, similar to his own, for that birthday about a month from now.

_“You don’t have to get me anything, Mr. Stark.”_

He could hear the shy voice… and that damn form of address.

_“I mean – we’re having dinner at my house. You could come. Um, and Ms. Potts too.”_

His eyes shut harder, the image of a young face appearing anyway.

No. Not now.

_“At least I’ll be seventeen soon. Maybe you won’t call me ‘kid’ as much then, huh?”_

_Kid._

A sound escapes him – wretched and strained. The alien woman had been speaking to him and approaching, but halts with the coming outburst.

**_“Fuck.”_ **

The single syllable becomes disjointed, intent strangled, as if it were a lashing limb suddenly mired in a trap.

He’s choking – not on blood or bile or even a lack of air. He doesn’t know what this is. One hand brusquely aims for purchase along his throat, his chest, then seizes, wanting to get whatever this is **out**.

Tony swiftly stands, heels of his hands pressing dangerously against his sockets, tears leaking past all of these efforts… wetting the ash, creating grime…

He’s shaking; he wishes it were all anger, but so little of it is.

_“I don’t want to go.”_

The stab wound pulsates with his erratic heaving.

He recalls the weight of that gauntlet on his head, seconds before being spared by Thanos, who equated death at his hands as a mercy.

_“Mr. Stark, please…”_

He had told Thanos that the Titan was his only curse.

_“Please…”_

He stumbles as he abruptly turns and falteringly walks away from that site of broken things. He almost falls twice, still ignoring the eerie mechanical being calling out to him. His eyes are finally open, inducting the rest of his awareness into the fray…

He instinctively looks for a small-statured figure that often hovers by his shoulder. It’s irrational, but his eyes desperately rove the desolate surroundings. Nothing.

_“I’m sorry.”_

A sharp intake of breath and the entirety of him is flinchingly recovering from an onslaught his physiology cannot seem to bear. His emotions catch on a second later – but those he can repress, unlike the tremors that currently ransack him of any coordination.

He barrels forward and manages to find his way to Quill’s ship past the blurred vision, his crippled breathing and that ache that thrums beneath each second of cognizance.

 

“ – damaged! Imbecile, listen!”

A suddenly angry figure blocks his path. He shoves past, catches the woman off-guard, for he is easy to underestimate, surely, in this bedraggled state.

He’s surely nothing more than a tightly fitted ball of chaos.

“Did you hear what I said?”

The ramp is a bit harder to navigate, his grip painfully tight on the railing as he moves up. He is almost past the threshold, into the ship, when the only other survivor reaches him.

Grabbing a fistful of his clothes, she whirls him around, not at all repentant when the movement upsets his balance.

“The ship is missing parts! How would you even expect to get off the ground when the engine is in pieces? We need to evaluate all options before –”

“I’ll fix it!”

His head snaps up, and she almost immediately looks away. Nebula somewhat resents the churning emotion staring at her… this man who swears by composure while his mask lies crumpled, meters away in a crater.

“It’s not only the engine… You could not possibly –”

“I’ll fix every –” He clears his throat, striving to compress brittleness into levity. “Everything.”

He lies bare and wounded in a way pathetically apparent to her, but his posture radiates challenge. She wants no part in the façade.

“Never mind.” With that, she turns and retreats down the ramp. “I’ll look for parts. You might as well sit inside before you collapse.”

“Fine. You look for parts, I’ll look for tools.” He makes the whole thing sound like a compromise.

“Even if your suit were functional, I doubt your Terran technology would equip you with the means to help with repairs.” Among the debris, she quickly scouts for recognizable fragments that could hopefully comprise a whole.

A pause, and then she hears the sounds of rummaging from within the ship.

During a lapse that safely feels monotone, they separately engage in a busyness meant to put distance between themselves and the surrounding wreckage.

‘ _Maybe…_ ’ she dares to speculate, finally finding a more-or-less intact fuel core.

Metal grinds, gears rasping together, to her left and within the shuttle. In the next moment, there’s a crash and the toppling of metal.

She knows it to be cruel, to be a result of her long-ago desensitization by Thanos’ side, but she wishes this man knew how to suffer in silence.

_‘Like you?’_

Growing lost in her own thoughts, she stares at the core in her hand, not wanting to consider who is left of the Guardians. It might be better to assume they’re all gone.

She still needs to reach Terra to be sure. If there is an assembly of other warriors – if allies from several galactic corners have coalesced – maybe they will have answers. She won’t dare expect much else.

 

After an undefinable amount of time, Nebula enters the Milano, arms filled with roughly salvageable parts.

As predicted in her cool regard of the Terran warrior, there are strewn items and upended containers all over the deck floor. She summarily adds her own pile to the mess, expecting the clang to beckon the man closer for a reconnaissance of sorts.

Looking harried, the man indeed steps back into the cramped area. He briefly runs a hand down his face, looks at the parts and then to her, all within a second’s span, it seems. He concentrates, however, on the mechanical assortment resolutely in the end, voice notably flat as he finally speaks.

“I found a hatch and looked into the engine. You’re right; I’m gonna need your help.”

She stares at him, somewhat surprised. He continues, attention locked onto the scraps at his feet.

“If you’re able to turn on the ship and show me schematics of any sort and translate them to me… I can start repairs.” At this he meets her gaze, as if assuming this form of contact would be enough to secure a promise and convince her.

Though still uncomfortable with the man’s tenuous grasp on his emotions, Nebula admires the determination coating his every word. She gives a nod and immediately drifts to a panel by the ship’s controls. A second later, the tired man follows, limping slightly.

 

_“I’m Tony Stark, by the way.” A forced if minimal measure of flippancy allows him to acknowledge her a little more steadily._

_She makes sure the coordinates are correct as she plots a final navigation course._

_“Nebula.”_

_“Well, Nebula,” he emphatically tests the name out. “How long will it take us to reach Earth? Hours? Days?” A pause as he observes her, raising an eyebrow at her grunt of annoyance. “You do know about our units of measure, right?”_

_“We would arrive in Missouri on the 29th day of April.”_

_“Missouri,” Stark scoffs. “So, definitely re-routing upon entry.”_

_“That is our default setting for Earth. If not there, then what other destination?” She didn’t want him tampering with the coordinates as most of their systems were still precariously functional._

_“… I’ll think about it.” Looking depleted from having interacted for more than a minute, he stands and begins walking down a corridor._

_“Stark.”_

_“I’m finding a bunk. Might as well go fall unconscious somewhere.”_

 

That exchange had been a day ago, according to the countdown on the overhead screen. The man has only re-entered the piloting room twice, to retrieve Quill’s ‘med kit’ and collect tools.  


Regarding Stark… Nebula cannot exactly say she’s a good judge of character, usually deeming any acquaintance a potential enemy. Nevertheless, she prides herself in her detection of danger and in her readiness for it.

She senses that Stark is close to destroying something… anything. He is practically a caged animal, pacing with an offset of energy that collects like static in the air. She’s tempted to offer him respite in the way of breakable merchandise that sits in the cargo hold, surely not be delivered or traded anytime soon. She’s already destroyed half of it herself, only refraining from setting remnants ablaze by a small consideration for nearby fuel lines.

She understands; she gained a sister so little ago and now she is without family again.

She thought it impossible to hate Thanos **more**.

One of the visual nodules cracks slightly under her grip, thankfully still working once she’s aware enough to step back. She consciously relaxes her hand, hating the subtle whir to her mechanical joints in the process.

Never one to languidly sit, Nebula retreats to the back of the room, propping one foot against the floor and another on the wall as she leans back, arms crossed.

Stark stalks into the room, not seeming to account for her presence. Or just as likely not to care. An ongoing limbo has settled like a treaty between them: resolute forwardness and badly-managed idleness. Much remains unspoken.

He rummages through a desk in the opposite corner. She watches the hard line of his shoulders grow even more tense as his hand suddenly stops and hovers over some object. Thinking it as good a time as any to interject, she speaks up, hollowly amused at his small jump of surprise.

“I spared half of the cargo for you downstairs. You’re free to…”

_‘Turn it to dust.’_

“… break it all so long as you don’t endanger us with any explosions.”

He gives a huff of wry disbelief, probably not ever having been offered this brand of camaraderie. Nebula knows Rocket would have appreciated this treatment, and Stark remotely reminds her of the blustering, but soft-hearted mercenary.

“No promises – with the explosions bit. So, better not,” he answers, posture loosening slightly, taking the offer and acceptance of little restraint as merely confined solely to the cargo hold and target practice.

She waits and grows confused at Stark’s rapt attention on whatever he’s decided to lay his hand on. It’s something of Quill’s, she now recognizes. She can see the Terran’s left hand shake with tremors before he’s able to make a fist and reclaim the appendage.

“I want to kill him too,” she admits. The desire is as good as a promise, at least to herself… and Gamora.

“Yeah, I imagine there’s a long list of people who feel the same, and it’d be nice if we all joined forces within the next few days.”

Nebula had expected more fervor. Convinced he’s distracted by Quill’s artefact, her curiosity rises, but she’s not one to sidle close and show blatant interest in strangers.

“We kill Thanos, we retrieve the gauntlet,” she intones with clear intent.

At this, Stark’s gaze travels upwards, resting its heavy weight upon her.

“What do you know about the gauntlet? The stones?”

“The gauntlet is all Thanos ever wanted, in order to harness and wield the power of the stones. It was destined to create or destroy at a universal scale.”

“And undo?”

Nebula strains to hear that last part. She watches him as he turns towards a viewport, his back to her.

“I cannot be sure,” she says, uncommonly hesitant. “The soul stone is rumored to be an entity of sorts, sentient, but not easily convinced. To reverse changes, you would need to reverse the sacrifice that –” Not able to dampen the emotion tainting her voice, Nebula prefers to stop talking altogether.

“So, we find a way… or we die trying.”

The declaration sounds familiar – like a Terran expression Quill would use, except without the flair and jocularity.

For the first time, the silence is an emotional kind, betraying their company as it allows them to recognize tiredness in each other, sighs little more than wisps of abandoned platitudes.  


Nevertheless, with Stark’s odd note of stilted confidence, Nebula finds she prefers this quiet form of limited optimism.

She must correct him on one account, however.

“The group you met - they called themselves the Guardians. With any luck, two of them will be on Terra alongside your teammates. As for me, I will be there to learn the whereabouts of Thanos, accompanied or not. I am not part of a collective.”

Unaware that she had stepped forward during those last two statements, she stops shy of the workspace next to the mechanic. She spies the earlier object on the desk from her new vantage point. Odd, it's just a small statuette, one of Quill's many items from his scavenges for Terran keepsakes.

“I will kill Thanos,” Nebula’s tone goes monotone, still distracted. “But I leave saving half of the universe to you.”

Stark snorts, gaze concentrated ahead to the abyss beyond them. “Don’t know who’s exactly cut out for this hero business. I’m not even aiming for bringing back half, knowing my luck.”

She spies his expression grow grim in the reflection on the glass. In this prism of refracted contact, safely indirect and filtered, Nebula can afford to scrutinize this man.

“Maybe a handful of people, at best,” he continues saying, pace a little quicker.

She curses her artificial hearing as she detects restrained exhales. She would think him calm if not for his eyes, for the way he grips his left wrist so tightly.

“At least one… I can definitely think of one.” 

There's a breathy halt to a stumble of words, and she feels far too ill-equipped to pursue this further. She can guess as to the 'who,' and she can even guess at the relationship. And yet, there's no use tip-toeing around fault lines. Distance works best in her experience.

Nebula delicately pockets the artifact, ready to give Stark wide berth once more as a show of sympathy. And if the statuette brought back unpleasant memories for him, she might as well spare him that as well.

“The name means 'stone' back on Earth,” he whispers.

She stops, looking into her palm. Digits maneuver the item left and right, the words **S. Peter** written on a tiny plaque along the base.

Is Stark using Quill as a means to redirect attention? They had met briefly, it seems.

“That does not sound like him,” Nebula comments, confusedly trying to follow the thread of conversation. 

 

“No, it doesn't.” Tony tries to keep talking in the middle of a near-feverish jolt. “I’ve heard enough about iron in my lifetime, enough to know that it’s bullshit. The tie to my last name, the legacy – Christ, even the namesake for my Avenger title. It’s all bullshit.”

Nebula only understands fragments of this, but listens to him ramble.

“But he –” Tony swallows with difficulty. “He was always better than that.” At this point, the man feels like a missile without trajectory, all excess energy, but surrounded by fine glass. He wants to touch down. He wants to collapse. “The ‘stone’ part’s all wrong. I think I’d agree with the title of ‘saint,’ though.”

Nebula brushes her finger over the mark of ‘S’ on the plaque. “Now I know you are not referring to Quill. He was no saint.” She says the last bit almost fondly.

“No, I can guess he wasn’t.”

“But your –”

_Your Peter._

“Mine was,” Tony confirms. And like that, the fire burns out.

“Stark,” Nebula starts off silently. Not softly, at least. He still doesn’t want to hear it. “We will make a pledge.” She waits for Tony to respond, but he’s barely holding on as is. 

“I swear to you,” the alien woman continues, “I will get my sister back… And you will have your son.”

He hums, managing sadness into that brief sound. He uses a hand to support his frame as he droops, as if about to laugh. “Not my son. Not my kid.”

The tired hero feels the scrutiny, and yet so little seeps in at this point past his exhaustion. 

“Would you do anything to get him back?”

Tony gains more spirit in light of that question, body answering before the “Yes” resounds. 

“That is what I mean, Stark,” Nebula says matter-of-factly. “We will get our family back.” 

Tony grows listless once more.

Family.

_“I’m sorry.”_

Tony had never told him, never said as much. He thought he had time.

He straightens himself forcefully as he battles another riptide of emotion.

‘ _Goddamnit,_ ’ he thinks furiously. Feeling like a defeated captain aboard a sinking vessel, amidst shortness of air and cracked strongholds, he strains to admit the hardest truth of all.

“I didn’t deserve him…” As he says this, Tony lightly but repeatedly punches a part of the viewport’s frame, trying to take away from the loss of control he has over his eyes, his throat, his chest. 

 

Nebula stares at the back of Stark’s head. This whole time she thought he wanted to destroy something; she miscalculated entirely. Already broken, the man was simply waiting to fall apart once tiredness finally claimed him. 

A parent’s love is outside the realm of her understanding. However, looking at this Terran, she marvels at the force of such connections – at the void a true parent must feel at such irreparable loss. 

Tentatively, she steps forward and presses a steadying hand to a quaking shoulder.

“We get them back, Stark,” Nebula says with hope that feels bold and challenging. “There is only use in being grateful for what we have instead of questioning it. Otherwise, the next time they embrace you, you may not know to embrace back.”

She looks away to gather herself, to grant them both a mild reprieve.

“You have to tell him about his name,” she adds, deciding to borrow a page of his, this attempt at levity.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t accept.

“God, I’ll do better than that,” he replies, almost offended. As she catches his hesitant gaze, bloodshot but much more alive, she nods in unspoken understanding. But he pushes forward, buoyed by the rare lack of doubt shown in answer to his authenticity. “I have to tell that kid that I love him.”

Nebula registers static collecting around her eyes; a pale comparison to what her natural body would have her express. However, she can still press her lips together and nod sharply.

_‘I need to tell my sister the same.’_

“Then fight for **that.** ” She grips his shoulder more tightly.

A hand that only trembles minutely now grips hers back. 

 

The universe has come into focus a little more, and with that, it seems he can face her head-on. Receding from the shadows, he feels a gleam grow warmer within and he knows it’s a promise to see Peter again.

“Okay.”

The reply is simple… but so is the reason for his mission now. Absolute truth is simple that way: the world needs Spider-Man the way Tony needs Peter. 

He’ll put everything right again. 

And maybe this time, somehow in the most ironic of ways, he’ll fix things by thinking of one person. 

_“Mr. Stark, you can’t clear out the whole day just ‘cause it’s my birthday. What about S.I. meetings, or Avenger business, or lab –”_

_“Kid,” the genius gently interrupts. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”_

It’s a good thing for the rest of the world that its restoration and balance hinges on Peter because as much as Iron Man may be envisioned to do this in the name of universal salvation, all Tony really wants is his kid back.


	2. So I love you because I know no other way than this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I finished on time. To the people that commented, thank you for taking the time.
> 
> I pretty much wrote this non-stop while listening to instrumental music, so sorry if it's 'rambly.' Also, I know I overuse italics but how else can I voice the emotion as emphatically as I hear it? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> God, I see Endgame on Thursday and like most of the fanbase, I'm as terrified as I am excited and happy about it ^_^

They wait on bated breath, foolishly feeling entitled to an immediate return of family and friends, alike, after their grueling two years of research and training… And then for that to be followed by a battle that seemed to exist on another plane of existence altogether. Notwithstanding Wong’s assistance with manipulation of space, and Scott’s slight alteration of time, the fight had felt surreal in its endlessness.

Near brushes with death had occurred, but not given any small measure of gratitude, they’re all still standing at the moment if somewhat stupefied and grievously injured. 

No eruption of cheers or badly-timed jokes have been uttered. There’s only waiting.

Standing in the middle of an enforced Wakandan battleground, they know to expect results soon, for if not made apparent there, they’d know to suspect defeat. Even if Thanos lies dead behind them, reduced to nothing more than a smoldered limb, the victory would feel nearly moot if it didn’t mean the recovery of all lost beings.

 

Bruce is about to break the silence when his peripheral vision affords a demonstration of true magic. Wonderful, uplifting magic.

Ashes seem to materialize out of nowhere, rising, until they slowly but surely solidify. All at once, several Wakandan warriors gasp into existence, a fine sheen of soot taking with it its last vestiges of a curse as it wholly seems to evaporate.

The warriors look around themselves and then at the Avengers in shock. More beings come into existence until soon enough, one of their own party members – Okoye – is the first to break away to welcome the Wakandan King, his name an exclamation of joy as she rushes forth.

More and more lives flourish back into their proper realm, including animals and plants. The wave of celebration picks up momentum as circles upon circles of reunions take place.

 

Tony feels some of the weight lessen, he does. 

He’s the only one among them who knows the exact odds of this happening, its monumental improbability, after all.

He waits, hyperaware of a sign that will mean that the worst of ‘wrongs’ has been reversed.

Most of his teammates are still puzzled over the drastic changes that have consumed him. And though the time shift has ridden him of the literal marks of having been dulled and greyed past recognition, the other champions retain memories of their harrowing journey. They remember the eccentric Tony Stark filed down to his most practical and minimalist traits – an encyclopedia turned synopsis, motor-mouth turned monosyllabic. 

He had Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, his A.I.’s… And some scrappy, somewhat insolent teen who was eager to share inside jokes with the man, even had a nickname for him: ‘The Mechanic.’ But Tony’s gaze was ever-distant, looking to someone who could not be accounted for.

Few knew there was indeed a ‘someone.’ Even fewer knew the name – a name never spoken by Tony. 

 

_Rhodey understood. Having met Tony in a context of developing identity and having been there in all matter of outbursts, he knew the importance which Tony ascribed to voicing things…_

_His announcement of self-proclaimed hero-ship after the press blatantly questioned his integrity._

_The open invitation to his Malibu home after having witnessed a fallen friend and being tied to terrorism._

_A show of reconstructing a haunting memory into a facsimile of comfort, all presented as a public gift of technology to a room full of students._

_The Stark persona might try to get in the way of those attempts at openness, with his airy manner and cockiness, but Tony adopted an aura of graveness after returning from space aboard the Milano._

_Rhodey never heard the name since then either, though he was more than familiar with it. It was synonymous with ‘honorary nephew,’ after all, he thought, lump in his throat._

_The other Avengers would keep waiting for spoken confessions. Perhaps if this had been years ago in their heyday, Tony would’ve allowed them glimpses. Rather, Rhodey was the one who stood fast by his longtime friend, observing fingers that ghosted over a particular swivel chair that stood untouched, even though it blocked a centric part of the lab. He would see the aborted gestures to leave windows unlatched at night when Tony retired to sleep on auto-pilot. It would break his heart to see the immediate efforts in fortifying a dam that was already sky-high and miles wide._

_And Rhodey knew that the name would only be said aloud if it meant someone would be there to answer back with that incomparable use of his friend’s name._

_Many thought the hot-shot billionaire loved nothing more than to hear his last name exalted in the form of arena encores. The truth was… Tony had once admitted to hating that second part to him a grand majority of the time. It was only until a certain teenager came along, with his innocent brand of “Mr. Stark,” that Tony grew to love that 5-letter title and what it meant to this kid. He unintentionally loved himself more for it._

_Rhodey wished for a time when he could tease Tony about it anew._

 

“Wong,” Clint calls, a clear contrast in his voice when compared to the jubilant tone around them. 

Steve is gripping onto Bucky, the other former-soldier shocked but slowly wrapping arms around his friend too.

Natasha hugs Wanda tightly and they can hear her assurances of bringing Vision back before the enchantress even thinks to ask.

Okoye and T’Challa have found Shuri as well and all three are locked into a circle of tight-knit arms and bowed heads.

There are only few left among their melee of fighters; they have yet to wait. 

Clint presses on as soon as the Senior Wizard approaches. “It should’ve all worked, right? What about a portal to my house?”

“We must wait for Strange,” Wong responds, equal parts business-like and sympathetic. “My energy is somewhat depleted, and I’m sure the Ancient One was able to reach Strange through realms. He should arrive shortly and use his powers to bridge Earth to Titan. He can help us reach the rest soon.”

_Titan._

Tony stops cold at the name, at the entirety of that expectation said with such conviction by Wong. He can feel a shift inside him, untwisting and breaking, only as painful as something coming back to life.

It’s only been a minute when a flurry of sparks confirms Wong’s assurances. And this, in turn, jumpstarts Tony’s awakening.

 

There’s a hammering in his chest, Tony knows, but the rest of him remains in stasis. His eyes widen as they spy Quill and Strange, closest to the portal. 

However, the true click of reality righting itself goes off like a starter’s pistol when a figure wanders into his vision, far in the background – a figure of red and blue, looking lost, raking a hand through hair in a subtle show of frustration. 

The gesture had always been endearing to him in moments of levity, but now… the familiarity bursts through him like all things light, all things happy. And Tony Stark doesn’t mind that he’s unraveling if it means finally being fitted back together and being whole again.

He’s a spool collecting scattered lifelines, being reeled in by this focal point that stands within reach.

_My kid._

Wong barely manages to say his name before he’s darting through the flashy gateway, running on tired legs. A second later, his rational side kicks in and reminds him that his thrusters will get him there much quicker.

He’s there on Titan again, back on this hellish planet. And he’s back to the state that first threatened to crumble him too: heaving, teary-eyed, overwhelmed. 

Except this time he’ll take it because it’s all in reverse, with the cosmos having finally made a mistake in his favor. He’s used to losing, after all. And yet, this - this is poetic and not at all common in his life, to be granted what he wished for, what he _begged_ for. 

There’s a pull to Peter and Tony swears it’s gravity and something positively magnetic because he should have collapsed by now. And unlike his previous time here, there’s no stopping the teeming emotions and the way they wet his face. He’d feel the pain all over again for the sight of this teenager, returned and unquestionably alive. The agony is nothing compared to this relief.

Tony would make the moment last longer if only his body would listen, for Peter turns and they lock gazes.

A primal mantra comprised of a single name reverberates throughout his very being, dissipating that two-year ache with every echo. 

He’s flying faster.

_“Hi. I’m, uh. I’m Peter.”_

Almost there.

_“When’s, uh, our next ‘retreat’, y’know?”_

Almost. The teen stumbles forward to meet him half-way, hand outstretched.

_“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”_

Bottled memories safely escape, setting him awash in sounds of contagious laughter, images of eyes alight in radiant wonder, such unexpected feelings of protectiveness, indulgence… Tenderness… 

He loves this child, beyond what he thought capable.

_“Yeah, thank **you**.”_

As soon as Iron Man feels the reality of what had surely been a mirage up until this point, intuitive measures call away the nanotech armor. One minute he’s a rocket, desperately locked onto a beacon, metal falling away like scales as he plants one leg a meter away from a certain younger superhero… 

And in the next moment, knees buckling and casual appearance in tatters, he’s Tony Stark, using his last reserves to encase this living and breathing miracle into his arms.

“God, kid,” Tony chokes on a laugh, or he means to. All that follows, however, is more measured breathing. The older man goes through a frantic recollection of tactile motions, as if calibrating his body to his heart. Feeling peace settle, senses coming attuned, hands cradle and brush soothingly over a person who Tony deems _precious_. 

 

To the man with a long-lost sense of home, Peter is a favorite Christmas bauble, a rising paper lantern that soars to the moon – he’s Tony’s heart, fitted perfectly in key-like fashion to turn a void into radiance, more so than any arc reactor ever could.

He ensconces the teenager, not sparing the least bit contentment in doing so, each wave of nostalgia accompanied by a resurgence of welling emotion that is past Tony’s control at this point.

Feeling like two shipwrecked survivors on a shore, both work through an almost hysterical recognition of being able to breathe again, of being tangible and _here, with each other_.

Pressed this closely, Peter feels like the hurt thrum of a caged spirit. Tony frets over Peter’s own mismatched huffs of air until he registers that the younger man is calming ever so slightly within his hold. And if all it takes is the further burrowing of a mussed head against his collarbone and the tightening of smaller hands as they cling to his old jacket, he’ll make the deal and commit to providing steadiness against his every wounded limb’s desire.

He’ll only be fine once Peter’s fine – one of many promises made in the two year span that tested his every frayed nerve.

“How are you doing, Underoos?” His voice breaks at the nickname, though the inflection translates more warmth than he’s been able to manage since he was last here.

A little shake is all the answer Tony needs to tighten his protective hold further. Peter surprises him, though, with his next words. 

“I’m so happy to see you, Mr. Stark.” Even in the middle of sniffles and stifled sobs, with his face hidden, the young superhero communicates a smile, however warbling.

And like that, Iron Man grits his teeth in a perfunctory show of rebellion before he hunches over Peter and summarily loses composure. He knows he hasn’t wept this openly since days after his parents’ funeral, when he found Jarvis packing his mother’s things in boxes.

It would be embarrassing if not for the fact that both superheroes are synchronized even in this: they huddle closer, dampening the senses save for one, preferring tactility as a means to absorb this dangerously reassuring surrealism.

Tony doesn’t know how it long it takes, with him cradling and subtly rocking the kid in his arms, but at last he’s convinced that Peter won’t disappear again. The teen is loose-limbed, his pulse a tranquil hum that’s no longer spiking.

“I’m happy to see you too.”

Tony decides he can let go if this weightlessness keeps him afloat; he’s no longer in any danger of drowning.

 

“Mr. Stark?” 

Tony hears the worried voice, how the teen is making more of an effort to support the billionaire before they both slowly collapse onto the ground. 

Tony’s floating away, tired smile softening every other feature until he looks more like his old self.

“It’s okay, Peter,” he murmurs, already surrendering to this soul-deep exhaustion. He can finally rest without nightmares. “I got you.”

“It’s quite alright, Spider-Man,” Strange says, slightly hesitating at the alias, seemingly arriving out of nowhere. Tony hazily regards the wizard and the shamelessly curious group of teammates who have gathered around them. Apparently, the other Avengers saw fit to follow. “He just needs to sleep.”

Strange’s cloak acts as a makeshift gurney and raises Tony carefully until he glides on his back at waist-level.

Peter comes closer, not willing to let go for too long, already reaching for his mentor’s hand. Tony’s hard-pressed to not cry all over again.

“I got you, Pete.” An exhale. “I got you back.”

“Yeah, I’m right here, Mr. Stark.” The teen trails along as they walk back towards the portal, never losing eye contact, even though it hurts the older hero to look into that teary gaze.

Calloused hands encircle the smaller one.

“’m never lettin’ go… not again…” Sleep’s overtaking him just as they reach the Wakanda field again, exposed to its over encompassing blue skies. 

Tony thinks of his other promises then.

_Tell him about his name, about how he’s more of a saint, more of a hero than anyone else will ever be. Tell him…_

Tony lifts his head a bit, noticing in an askance way how Wakandan officials have a splay of gurneys awaiting all the recovering warriors. A person wearing a lab coat is on their way towards Peter and him.

“Hey, Pete?”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”

_Always so polite._

He swallows and clears his throat. “I love you, kid,” Tony says as clearly as he can manage, resisting the urge to sniff.

Peter rears back slightly, wide eyes taking a second before they well. He doesn’t resist as much as not register the official who tries to beckon him to a gurney of his own.

It’s a perfect juxtaposition, Tony thinks. On the worst day of his life, Peter had been on the ground amidst rubble, sentenced to a disappearance worthy of something being ‘too good to be true.’ But now…

With his last fully coherent thoughts, Tony commits this to memory instead: Peter Parker framed by blue and sunlight, tear brushed off by a wayward shrug, smile still a little shy, hand still in both of Tony’s.

“I love you too, Mr. Stark.”

Tony closes his eyes, drifting as he hears Peter follow up with a shaky, “I’ll see you soon.”

With that, the well-renowned futurist knows he can look to a tomorrow where he can count blessings again. After all, by the time he wakes up, he’s sure it’ll be tomorrow and he hopes to see Peter as the first sign of a fully restored universe.

 

**\- END -**

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry about feedback/commenting. 
> 
> This is actually a social experiment of sorts, and more than anything, a personal gift for a friend. It was simply easier to publish this on AO3 and have a link so that she can share/download the story among other fellow Irondad fans who are quite reclusive.
> 
> Hope you all see the movie soon, and hope whatever happens, more inspiration abounds for further Irondad content. Bye now!


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